Charlie is looking up at me in humiliation. My youngest found little red dog bracelets with bells on them in a drawer from Christmas last year and decided to dress her up. The poor dog makes so much tinkling noise when she walks that she’s uncharacteristically afraid to move. Hank is wearing the collar of bells that matches the footwear, but he is indifferent to my daughter’s accessorizing for the holiday. This child has been counting the days on her Advent calendar, each chocolate bringing her one day closer to Christmas. As the youngest, she gets more excited than the other two at this time of year, her memories closer to the wonder of childhood than the jadedness of adulthood. She has to work hard to stay innocent, when for example her brother rented Step Brothers for a family movie night. But somehow her happy energy is infectious, and since none of us want to spoil it for her we make an effort to rise above our pettiness, our crankiness, our squabbles with each other that forced togetherness can bring out. Seeing through her eyes is a good exercise. Aren’t we all trying to recapture the joy of living moment to moment? When we first arrived in Idaho for our winter break the first thing she wanted to do was build a snowman. The snow was so dry that she struggled to make a ball, but eyeing the collapsed igloo from Thanksgiving she pilfered some already formed blocks and stacked them on top of each other. She called me when I was out at the grocery store and asked where I had put the carrot she was going to use for the nose. I told her I had left it on the piano bench. “It’s not there!” she cried, “only a wet spot. Gross, it’s dog drool. Hank!” she yelled for the dog. “Mom, he ate it! Can you get another one please? And something to use for eyes?” she asked.
We all went skiing yesterday, but the youngest and I cut out early to finish shopping. Or more specifically, I had to quit early to finish shopping and she was looking for any excuse to quit skiing. It was her first day on the hill this trip and she was on new skis that she didn’t like, heavy racing skis that her father had bought for her sister years ago, in hopeful delusion that she might follow his footsteps into ski racing. Her sister used them once, complained similarly, and then promptly stole an old pair of her brother’s twin tips that were easier to turn and that she has been skiing on since. Towards the the end of the day you would never have known that the youngest was having trouble with her skis however, her pace having increased dramatically and in direct proportion to how many runs she had left before we stopped. On the last run she was like a horse heading back to the barn, and I had to hurry to keep up with her.
When we got to town we went into the bookstore which was insanely crowded and hot after being outside in twenty degree weather. My daughter grabbed my arm and asked, “Mom, isn’t that Jamie Lee Curtis?” I looked where she was pointing and there sat the actress and author signing copies of her new children’s book. “How did you know that was Jamie Lee Curtis?” I asked my daughter. “From Freaky Friday,” she said excitedly. “And we have two of her books. Can we get the new one? Please?” she asked. It’s for four to eight year olds, but since it’s called My Mommy Hung The Moon I felt generous. “Sure,” I replied, “but you stand in line.” She agreed and happily waited to meet her Very First Famous Person. Jamie Lee Curtis was charming, taking time to write both our names and sign hers with Mother Love. My daughter was smitten, and for good reason. We need more female role models like her. In the car on the way home my daughter read the story aloud. “Will you read this to me tonight before bed?” she asked, after turning the last page. “You bet,” I said, knowing how quickly those opportunities would evaporate.
Now it’s Christmas morning and she is waiting impatiently for the others to get up. I woke first and came down to let the dogs out. She must have heard the door open and close because she walked into the family room, hair mussed from sleep and went straight to her stocking on the hearth. It took all of two minutes to go through the items before she came to me and asked when we could wake everybody up. Charlie feels her excitement, not sure what’s so special about today, but barking at phantom elk through the glass of windows and doors. Hank follows her from door to door, ready to lend assistance should they be allowed outside again. My youngest called Charlie up on the couch and whispered in her ear, “Your breath smell like elk poop.” Charlie digs under the snow until she uncovers those fragrant droppings. “Ugh, you reek. Get down,” she says finally. “Mom, will you play gin rummy with me?” she asks. So now I’m typing in between drawing cards. She’s not as experienced as her older sister yet so I can manage to be distracted while playing. Her sister is three points ahead of me in our running game, one lucky hand bringing me within reach of her. I stupidly challenged her after a glass or two of wine a few nights ago, and she promptly ginned early in the first game, catching me with several face cards in my hand and going up by seventy odd points. I realized I wasn’t going to beat her by ginning so I focused on going down as early as possible, forgoing the extra twenty five points I would receive if I risked waiting to gin. It was a slow climb, but my luck turned on the last hand, thankfully bringing us nearly even. The gloating I would have had to bear if she had held her early lead was not something I wanted to experience, especially since I started it. My youngest just ginned on me as I wrote that last line. So much for multi-tasking. “Can I PLEASE wake them up now?” she asked. “Go,” I said, finally rewarding her patience.
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